


Shadows of the Past

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Morse-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Something... came up... and I felt you needed to be made aware of it. As soon as possible."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows of the Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindenharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/gifts).



> For Lindenharp, who is not only very talented, but also a good friend and BR, on the occasion of her birthday - which is tomorrow, but I'm posting just a little early so as not to get in the way of any Valentine fics. Very many thanks to Uniquepov and Paperscribe for BR help.

The beach is deserted this time of year, and there are no tourists crowding the causeway leading to St Mary’s Lighthouse. It’s drizzling slightly as Robbie stands at the water’s edge looking out over the misty North Sea. He can’t help shivering, even in his thick winter anorak. Maybe it was a mistake to come here at this time of year. What was the line in that song Val’d liked? _Nothing quite like an out-of-season holiday town in the rain_ , that was it. Never a truer word.

He shouldn’t have come. Why had he thought that Whitley Bay – at any time of year – made sense? Yes, he’d needed to get away from Oxford for a bit after Monkford’s trial and sentencing, but there were better places to go, places that weren’t steeped in memories of family holidays in years past. Even though the town’s changed a lot, everywhere he turns there are reminders. A café where they used to eat. That stretch of beach where the kids would paddle and he and Val would sit on a piece of driftwood and watch. The pub they’d go to on bingo or quiz nights. And here, the lighthouse, where he and Val had walked hand in hand and stood together watching the waves as the sun went down. The first time they’d come, he’d held her and kissed her, and she’d whispered that she was pregnant again.

Happy memories, yes, but back here, now, they’re nothing but painful. He turns to begin the long walk back to the cottage he’s renting from the friend of one of his cousins. He’s only been here two days of the week he intended, but maybe he should just pack up and go home. It’s not as if being here is doing what he’d intended, anyway. How can he possibly come to terms with Val’s death and the bastard who’s just been put away for it with all these memories crowding in everywhere he turns?

Though what difference does it make where he is? He’s not going to come to terms with Val being killed, is he? It’s been five years, and nothing makes it easier. Nothing. 

Nothing ever will.

* * *

It’s raining hard when he finally reaches the cottage, and all he wants to do is get inside, get into dry clothes and have a drink or two by the fire. But there’s a car parked outside, and he recognises it. Dark blue Vectra with an Oxford registration... no way that’s anyone other than Hathaway, and what the hell is he doing here?

It’s tempting to march straight inside and lock the door. But there has to be a reason Hathaway drove all this way – and, if he’s honest, it might be nice to have company for a few minutes. Hasn’t he just admitted that he’s not enjoying his own company all that much?

He pauses by the driver’s door and bangs on the window. Hathaway rolls down the window. “Sir. I apologise for the intrusion, but something’s happened I felt you should know about, and since you apparently didn’t bring your mobile...”

“I’m not talkin’ out here in the rain. You’d better get inside.” He turns and heads for the door, leaving Hathaway to follow.

Inside, he barely glances at his bagman; he’s not going to make it that easy, even if part of him actually feels pleased to see the bloke. Hathaway knew why he’d needed to get away from Oxford, after all, and he should know better than to follow him here. “I’m going to dry off. You can make yourself useful – the kettle’s in there.” With a jerk of his head, he indicates the way to the kitchen.

After changing into dry clothes and rubbing his hair with a towel, Robbie heads for the kitchen, where Hathaway is pouring boiling water into two mugs. “I assumed you’d prefer tea, sir.” 

It’s not quite a question, but Robbie nods anyway. “You found everything, then? There’s biscuits in the cupboard above your head.” Hathaway reaches up for them, and then Robbie leads the way into the small sitting-room. It’s chilly inside, so he lights the gas fire before taking a seat in one of the armchairs. 

Hathaway sits opposite, and Robbie waits. Hathaway’s the one who’s arrived uninvited, after all, and it’s up to him to explain why he’s here. The bloke’s clearly not sure of his welcome. He’s sitting stiffly in the straight-backed armchair, hands flat on his lap, and he’s looking at a point above Robbie’s head. 

Robbie coughs. Hathaway starts slightly, then seems to come to a decision. “I know you’re wondering why I’m here, sir, and I appreciate that it’s a considerable imposition. But something... came up... and I felt you needed to be made aware of it. As soon as possible. So I... had to find you.”

The bloke’s at his awkward worst. Christ, what does he think Robbie’s going to say to him? Robbie sighs and gestures at the bloke. “What’s happened? No, wait, before you tell me that, how did you manage to find me? I didn’t tell you I was comin’ up here. Didn’t tell anyone.” He just bloody hopes Hathaway hasn’t used police resources to find him. That would take some explaining to Innocent.

“I could point out that I’m a detective, sir,” Hathaway says dryly. He pulls a face, then adds, “I wouldn’t have come, though, if it wasn’t that – I did realise that you needed to get away from... from the job, from Oxford, for a while. But – contrary to regulations, I might add – you didn’t take your mobile, so I couldn’t phone you. I did phone your daughter. She was able to give me a number you phoned her from, and I used reverse lookup – a publicly-available resource, not a police database – and traced it to here.” He seems to realise the inconsistency in what he’s just said. “Since I didn’t know the number or the address, I wasn’t comfortable with phoning, so I drove up.”

Hathaway still looks as if he expects Robbie to tear a strip off him. Robbie shakes his head in resigned disbelief. “I’m hardly gonna throw you out on your ear. You obviously have a good reason.”

“Yes, sir.” Hathaway leans forward. “I assume you remember a senior officer by the name of Johnson? Superintendent Martin Johnson?”

“Christ, I haven’t heard that name in more than ten years. Nearly fifteen since I last saw the bloke.”

Hathaway nods. “That sounds about right. I don’t know the details,” he continues, “but apparently there’s an investigation into him, and practices going back at least to the early nineties.”

Robbie snorts. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Wasn’t exactly a stickler for the rules, was Johnson. But what’s it got to do with me?”

“Apparently you worked with him for a time?” Hathaway glances at him for confirmation. He nods. “From what I understand, he’s claiming that you were... complicit in some of what he’s being accused of.”

That sounds like Johnson, all right. “What’s he saying I did?”

“Again, I’ve only heard bits and pieces. Fitting people up for things they didn’t do, intimidating suspects, something about evidence. I... well, I didn’t want you to come back and find yourself in the middle of an internal investigation.”

Robbie stares at Hathaway for a moment, then bursts out laughing. 

“Erm... sir?” Hathaway’s looking worried. He doesn’t really think that Robbie was involved in any unethical practices? But, no, of course he doesn’t. He’s just worried that mud might stick. And, of course, he’s come all this way to warn his boss, something that goes well above and beyond anything that might reasonably be expected of a bagman.

Robbie gives a reassuring smile. “He can’t make anything stick. Yeah, I worked with Johnson on a big murder case. We put a couple of people away during that time, an’ I did notice he was fond of TICs – taken into consideration. Wasn’t something Morse liked, as a rule, and I wasn’t that keen meself, but what the governor wants, the governor usually gets. Well, where Johnson was concerned, anyway. Thing is, the powers that be weren’t really bothered about inflating charges back then. If it got a few more unsolved cases off the books, then that was all anyone really cared about, and Johnson was hardly the only senior officer to do it. It’s different now, of course.”

“Mmm. Now it’s called laddering, and I’ve seen it lead to disciplinary action.” 

“Exactly. Not then, though. Anyway, it was the murder case that got us into a bit of bother – Johnson got the murderer, Stephen Parnell, to confess to another unsolved murder as well as the four he admitted to. Turned out later he said he hadn’t done it, an’ Morse got the bit between his teeth. He was right, too.”

Hathaway’s frowning again. “So you were involved with at least one unsustainable TIC, sir?”

“Only peripherally, and that was sorted. Look, I know what Johnson’s like, or at least what he was like then. Arrogant sod, and bloody ambitious. I was a bit naive where he was concerned – he played me like a bloody violin. Promised me promotion if I’d leave Morse and come with him when he moved up – he was a DCI then. Should’ve known he was just using me to get at Morse.” Robbie pulls a face. “He kept calling me Bob.”

Hathaway barely bites back a smirk. “You didn’t accept his offer, then, sir?”

“I did. And then I saw what he was really like. He almost beat up a sixteen-year-old boy in an interview room. I stopped him, told him what I thought of him, and went straight to Strange – the Chief Super – and reported him. Not just for the intimidation and near-assault, but a number of other things. Strange said there wasn’t enough, even if I made a formal statement about the assault, to deny Johnson his promotion, an’ anyway, I got the impression he wanted the bloke out of his nick and out of the area. But he said he’d make a note of what I’d told him and put it in Johnson’s file, and it’d be enough to see that he never got another promotion. It’ll all be in the files somewhere – Strange was meticulous about that.” Robbie takes a drink of tea. “And if by any chance they can’t find the file, Strange will remember. Doesn’t forget much, does Strange.”

“I’ve never met him, sir,” Hathaway says, “but I’ve heard about him, of course. And I’m very glad that Johnson’s accusations won’t stick.”

“Thanks.” Robbie rubs at his ear. “Look... it was good of you to come an’ tell me. You didn’t know it wouldn’t be a problem. And if it had been, it would’ve helped to be prepared. Thanks.”

Is Hathaway actually blushing? “It’s no problem, sir.” He shifts awkwardly in the chair. “Well, I’d better be going.”

Robbie glances at his watch, as it’s now completely dark outside. It’s almost seven. “You can’t drive back tonight. Weather’s bloody awful, apart from how late it is.”

“I... erm... wasn’t intending to. I didn’t know how long it might take me to find you, so I brought an overnight bag. I assumed it’d be easy to find a local B&B.”

Robbie huffs. “Don’t be daft. This place has two bedrooms going spare. Bring your bag in an’ choose one of them.”

“I really don’t want to intrude–”

“Ah, don’t talk nonsense. Couldn’t turn you out on a night like this, could I? Besides, I was getting a bit bored just talkin’ to meself every night. Ran out of conversation.”

A hint of a smile crosses Hathaway’s lips. “In that case, how could I refuse, sir? I’ll get my rucksack.”

* * *

Despite the weather, they agree to drive to a local pub for dinner; since the alternative is tinned soup or beans on toast, neither of them objects to getting a little bit wet, and the prospect of a decent pint is added incentive. 

Over dinner, another thought occurs to Robbie. “How did you find out about Johnson?”

“A uniform, one of Innocent’s assistants – I’d better not tell you who, because he spoke to me in confidence. He’d overheard what was going on and told me, hoping I could warn you.”

So someone else he owes thanks to. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve that loyalty, but he does appreciate it. “So Innocent doesn’t know you know? What excuse did you give for being away?”

“Told her that since there wasn’t anything major on and you were away anyway, I thought it was a good time to take a few days’ leave. And, no, she doesn’t know.”

Robbie takes a drink of his pint. “You realise that you could be risking your career?”

“What, by telling you what’s going on?” Hathaway looks belligerent. “As if that matters, sir. I just thought it wasn’t right that this was happening behind your back, and the thought of you coming back and being blindsided by this, pulled straight into an investigation and possible disciplinary charges – I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.” 

Robbie shakes his head. “Your career’s important too, James. Which isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate what you did.”

Now Hathaway looks embarrassed. “It’s only what anyone would have done.”

“No, it’s not.” He stands, collecting their glasses. “Same again?”

* * *

The following morning’s bright and sunny, if cold. James appears in the kitchen in the same sweatshirt and jeans he was wearing yesterday, his rucksack over his shoulder. “Morning, sir.”

“Morning.” Robbie gestures vaguely around. “There’s bread for toast over there, and cereal on the counter. I’ve made coffee.”

It’s not the first time they’ve made breakfast together, by any means; over the last couple of years it’s become the norm that, if James needs to pick him up in the morning, he’ll come a little early and have breakfast at Robbie’s. Apart from anything else, it gives them time to go over the day’s work or the latest case without the distractions always present at the station. This feels familiar, yet different; they’re both in casual clothes, and there’s no work to discuss. James keeps the conversation going, though, with a witty and acerbic commentary on the current state of politics and the expected general election next year. Robbie finds himself laughing more than once. “You should write one of those – what d’you call it? Blog things. You’d get a lot of readers.”

“Dunno where I’d find the time. My boss keeps me far too busy.” James’s lips curve in a faint smirk.

“Quite right too.” Robbie grins as he starts clearing the breakfast things away. 

James helps, and when everything’s washed and back in its place he picks up his rucksack. “Right, I’d best be going. Thank you for your hospitality, sir. I’ll see you next week?”

Robbie moves to stand next to James. “This your first time in the North-East?”

“It is indeed, sir. Quite an expedition – I even brought my passport. I wasn’t completely sure they’d let me in.”

“Yeah, can’t be too careful when it comes to dodgy types like you.” Robbie winks. “Can’t let you go back down south without showin’ you a bit of what the North-East’s famous for. Come on.” He pats James’s shoulder. “Put that bag down for now, an’ come for a walk around town with me. I’ll treat you to proper seaside fish an’ chips before you go, and you’ll still get back to Oxford before dark.”

James turns his head, eyes wide with surprise but mouth curving with pleasure. “I’d like that.”

* * *

They walk through the town towards the beach, and Robbie finds himself telling James about the family holidays in this town all those years ago: pointing out their favourite walks, where the kids’ adventure playground used to be, the cheap souvenir shop that replaced the bakery where they’d buy fresh bread and sticky buns. The old funfair at the Spanish City that Lyn and Mark begged to go to every year – and usually got their way.

They finish up at St Mary’s Lighthouse. The view across the bay and out to sea is much clearer today, without the rain and haze of yesterday. While they stand there, the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and the water’s suddenly sparkling, shimmering. It’s beautiful, just like his memories of those years past. 

Funny what a difference decent weather can make. Yesterday, Robbie was ready to pack up and leave; today, he’s enjoying the sea air and starting to feel refreshed rather than trapped in the mire of his own bitterness and depression.

Despite his pretended ignorance of anything north of Birmingham, James proves himself pretty knowledgeable about the area as they stroll back along the causeway: he talks about the original twelfth-century settlement, and Whitley’s connection with the Crusades, as well as the crenellation of the manor house in the fourteenth century as a potential defence against marauding Scots. “Been doing your homework,” Robbie comments, and James shrugs. “Cleverclogs,” Robbie taunts, and the lad just grins.

The fish and chips are good, and James seems to enjoy the meal as much as Robbie does, though he does look at his watch a couple of times – most likely calculating the best time to leave so as to avoid the worst of the traffic on the M1 and coming into Oxford. When Robbie turns his wrist over to look at his own watch, he’s surprised to find that it’s after one; where has the morning gone to? It’s barely seemed more than a couple of hours.

“Sir,” James says once they’re walking back to the cottage, and Robbie glances at him, raising an eyebrow at his serious tone. “Obviously, I’m... aware... of why you needed to get away. The trial... I know it’s been – well. Anyway. What I’m trying to ask, and making a bit of a mess of it, is – will you be all right?”

Robbie pauses, studying his sergeant out of the corner of his eye. The concern in James’s face is apparent – and so’s the wariness. James knows he’s treading on difficult ground, and of course he got his head bitten off for it previously. But he meant well then, and he means well now. James Hathaway’s a decent bloke, Robbie reminds himself – and if he needed any further proof of that, which he doesn’t, he had it yesterday, didn’t he?

He takes a deep breath. “Got a bit of a way to go, but I’ll get there eventually.”

“Mmm.” The gentle brush of James’s hand against Robbie’s arm says far more than James’s verbal response. Robbie reaches out in return and lays his hand briefly against James’s back, a silent thanks – something he knows he owes the lad, not just for this, but for everything James has done for him since they met. The last three years, since coming back to Oxford, have been hard – but they would have been well-nigh impossible without the constant support of his partner.

Back at the cottage, they go inside so James can collect his rucksack. As the bloke straightens and turns to Robbie, clearly intending to say his goodbyes again, Robbie forestalls him. “Should’ve said it before, man – should’ve said it a long time ago. Thank you – for getting the evidence against Monkford, for being there for me all through the last few months, an’ putting up with me moods. Know I’ve been a bastard to work with, an’ I’m sorry for it.”

James shakes his head. “No need.” He hesitates, then adds, “Isn’t that what... partners are supposed to be for?”

Instead of answering, Robbie holds James’s gaze for a long moment, silently substituting the word James should have used. He knows James understands, because the lad’s lips move very faintly into what, for him, is a pleased smile.

Then James looks away, turning towards the door. “I should go. I’ve already taken up too much of your day as it is.”

Robbie follows James out to the car, standing by as the bloke drops his rucksack in the boot. He finds himself shivering a bit, and realises that the sun’s gone behind a dark cloud. Simultaneously, the renewed pleasure he was finding in this beloved town’s disappearing. 

James starts to get into the car, and in that moment Robbie realises that his change of mood has nothing to do with the weather. He hesitates – what right does he have to ask? But he tells himself: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“James.” He reaches out to grip the car door; James turns to give him a quizzical look. “You said you took a few days’ leave, yeah?” James nods. “You probably wouldn’t be interested, but... well, I have this place for the rest of the week, and I’d be a pretty poor Geordie if I didn’t show you a bit more of the North-East, yeah? What do you think?”

“If that’s an invitation to stay, sir...?” James straightens, looking at him. Robbie nods, hands stuffed in the pockets of his zip-up sweatshirt. “Yes. Thank you.”

Robbie reaches up to wrap an arm around James’s shoulders. “You get your rucksack; I’ll put the kettle on and we can discuss an itinerary – know how you like to be organised.”

James is beside him in seconds, rucksack over his shoulder, and the sun’s warm on Robbie’s back as they go inside.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who may be wondering:
> 
> \- the song Robbie is remembering is Chris de Burgh's _Fatal Hesitation_.
> 
> \- DCI - later Superintendent - Johnson appeared in the _Morse_ episode _The Way through the Woods_ , which is an absolutely excellent episode for Morse and Lewis interaction.


End file.
